


White as Blood

by passionate_crimes



Series: Allusions and Daydreams [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fairy Tale Elements, Fluff, Insomnia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-07-12 15:30:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7111792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/passionate_crimes/pseuds/passionate_crimes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John always was a romantic. The princes and heroes of fairy tales always stuck with him, and he swore he'd always be a kind, gentle man who would save the one he loved.<br/>Even when he discovered that the original sources painted these men as pompous, rude assaulters, he tried his best to remain an honest man.<br/>Yet here he was.</p>
            </blockquote>





	White as Blood

The dream is something odd, even in it John has difficulty remembering the details. Snakes drift in between a woman’s legs, becoming princes and thieves and then changing once more, while rocks shift from gold to iron back to granite. An amphibian ribbits some wise words at him, but he can’t quite hear him...

He comes to slowly, with the realization that his mouth is hanging open, and is absolutely dry. He smacks his lips a few times, swallowing what little spit he can create. In the moment of silence, he hears a soft, sleepy sigh from behind him, and John remembers that he is not in his own bed.

It seems, for once, Sherlock has fallen asleep. Usually the other is the one awake, at least when John falls asleep, and then when he wakes up in the morning. After their first few nights together the genius confessed to having chronic insomnia, due to some childhood trauma he had yet to divulge.

“It’s gotten better with you,” he admitted softly, although in that moment post-coital drowsiness was engulfing John, while Sherlock was still wide awake. “When I was young, I used to believe I’d stay awake for a hundred years -- although of course that was ridiculous.”

Now, though, with those soft, dreamy breaths,  it’s as if the detective has fallen under a sleeping spell. John ignores his dry mouth and turns to see his sleeping lover.

But even the small motion of turning his head and shifting his back causes Sherlock to stir and groan. John freezes. The detective’s eyes flutter, before dipping closed again.

He’d forgotten what a light sleeper Sherlock was. A single disturbance would wake the man, even a grain of sand under the mattress would probably keep that tortured detective awake for days...

He stays in the position he froze in, despite the fact it makes his neck ache. In the darkness he can only pick out the stark contrast between Sherlock’s dark, ebony hair, and alabaster skin. His red lips are slightly open as he slumbers, and despite the earlier disruption, right now the man looks like he’s in a deep sleep, only able to be awakened by true love’s kiss.

(“That’s idiotic, John,” Sherlock informs him the following morning. “For starters, Snow White wasn’t woken by a kiss, it was the apple being dislodged from her throat when they dropped her coffin...”).

The illusion is ruined anyway, when a car honks faintly from the street below, and Sherlock grunts again, moving after a moment closer to John, tucking his head underneath his chest.

And as much as John appreciates the sentiment, his mouth still feels like cotton, and his spine truly is suffering.

He tries to move gently, but the movement of shifting onto his elbows makes Sherlock jolt up with an apnea-ed snort. His eyelids are still closed, but he is facing John’s general direction, and he lets out an inquisitive hum.

“Just getting water, darling,” John promises, kissing Sherlock’s nose as he slips out into the cold air.

Stepping on the kitchen tiles in the middle of the night, while naked, is cold enough to shiver even in the warmer months, so John hurries, not wanting to freeze. The water has other plans, however, and moves from the faucet in a slow, steady stream. Without the light on, the water looks dark, almost like the depths of the ocean, with the soft waves hitting the glass.

But filling up a glass can only take so long to begin with, and soon John is able to turn off the stream, and finally partakes in gulping down the beverage; the cold liquid relieving his dry mouth immediately, and he can feel it running down his stomach. He drinks the whole glass, letting it sate and soothe him, because it’s just, just right.

When he’s finished, he pads back into the room. Sherlock is still sitting up with half opened eyes, and he’s yawning, a silly looking image that John can’t help but marvel at.

“What a big mouth you have,” he teases, crawling under the covers with chattering teeth.

Sherlock just rolls his eyes, flopping down beside John and curling up into him. He’s silent for now, as if his voice was stolen from him--another small respite.

John soaks in everything that he can. He knows that tomorrow, when the clock strikes seven, the spell will be broken, and they’ll be back in their true roles, of a doctor and husband, detective and hermit--but for now, he can’t help but soak in the magic while he can, and watch his beautiful detective sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> I originally sketched this story out in my economics class, back in high school a few years back... And here it is, finally. It probably is a bit jumbled, so thank you for sticking through it. Love all of you :)  
> As always, comments and feedback of any kind are appreciated!!


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